


Funny Valentine

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Mistletoe, Romance, Slash, Smut, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets in the Christmas spirit.  Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funny Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Here, have a PWP.

**Title:** Funny Valentine  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)**htebazytook**  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** after A Scandal in Belgravia  
 **Author's Notes:** Happy Valentine's Day! Here, have a PWP.  
 **Summary:** Sherlock gets in the Christmas spirit. Sort of.

 

 

"Mistletoe."

Sherlock sighs. "Obviously."

"This is really . . . this is what you've resorted to. This."

"I don't know what you're—"

"You could have just, oh I dunno, _asked_."

"As you have stated on numerous occasions, you aren't gay." Really this makes perfect sense, so why John is refusing to understand it is beyond him.

"Well, I _have_ , but—"

"So . . . "

"Oh, whatever, just—come on, then." John tilts his head back. "Go on. Get it over with."

"John. This is not romantic in the least."

"Oh _ha-ha_. Your notion of romance is not responding to text messages for months on end."

Sherlock watches him. John really can't be this dense. "No, it isn't," he says. "Actually."

"So, what, this flagrant display of unseasonable mistletoe is what it means to be romantic in your world?"

"Not really, no."

Challenging little jut of his chin. "Enlighten me."

Sherlock catches John's chin in his hands to hold him still, just in case, then lowers his mouth to his. John exhales all at once through his nose and he clasps Sherlock's arm as the kiss deepens, just enough that Sherlock's tongue can meld against John's for a moment before retreating.

Sherlock straightens. "That is," he says silkily.

John's eyes are still closed. He licks his lips before looking at Sherlock again. "You know you've got your holidays mixed up. You _do_ know that."

"What's the difference? Christmas and Valentine's both offer up pointless traditions with which to excuse romantic advances should they be unwelcome. Cowardly cop out, that."

John just beams. "So . . . you're a coward, then."

Sherlock studies him, then shoves John back until he's against a wall and away from the mistletoe. "What would you do were I to kiss you again, right now?"

"You don't know?"

Sherlock is silent.

"Huh. I guess that means you ought to conduct an experiment and find out." John almost keeps a straight face, but then Sherlock's mouth twitches and John ends up grinning wolfishly at him. John's hand snags Sherlock's shirt and yanks him down for a much less careful kiss.

Against Sherlock's mouth John mumbles, "Oh God, oh God I think about this all the time. Have you any idea? _God_ ," then goes back to kissing him.

It's intriguing, so Sherlock runs his hands down John's arms, then up his sides, then unbuttoning down his chest and slipping inside to skim over skin until John's moaning into his mouth.

" _God_ ," John gasps, pulling back and letting his head thunk against the wall. "I want you to just . . . God I just _want_ you. Ugh. Want you to, you know, have your way with me or, oh that sounds stupid . . . "

"Ravish you, sort of thing?" Sherlock's thumb brushes over a nipple, making John jump nicely.

"Yeah yeah. Take me or shag me senseless or something."

"This is so romantic," Sherlock says tonelessly.

John laughs. Sherlock tears John's shirt the rest of the way off.

John casts it aside rather forcefully, then gets to work on Sherlock's shirt and takes to sucking on his neck all the while. Sherlock just pets John's hair while his vision shivers with impulse until John's undone the lowest button, at which point he licks his way down Sherlock's torso and starts to unbuckle Sherlock's belt as he falls to his knees—

Sherlock hauls him upright, secures him against the wall again and it jolts John's lust darkened eyes wide open.

"No," Sherlock says, "I'm going to fuck you."

"Ah," John breathes. "That's the word I was looking for."

A few blurred moments later and Sherlock has a naked John laid out on his bed, bare skin against Sherlock's sheets and strong hands scrabbling at Sherlock's shoulders as he lowers his mouth to John's cock.

Sherlock laps a drop of fluid from the tip before sucking the rest of it, John's fingers digging into his skin ever harder. Sherlock pulls off, pushes John's cock against his lips and occasional tongue without letting it in for awhile and watches John out of the corner of his eye. John's panting, flushed from his ears and all down his neck with eyes scrunched shut and hands wavering around Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock slides his lips along John's cock, then takes him softly into his mouth. John's mouth parts on a wordless cry so Sherlock reaches up to touch it and John doesn't hesitate at all, licks at Sherlock's fingers obediently until Sherlock pushes them in. John does an excellent job of mimicking what Sherlock's doing to his cock.

Satisfied, Sherlock removes his fingers from John's mouth, smearing them against his lips in farewell. John's cock twitches under his tongue. Sherlock then reaches behind John's balls to tease against his entrance, and—

"Sherlock," John says, more exasperated than longing.

"Just relax. I know what I'm doing."

John starts laughing, which is not exactly the reaction Sherlock had been hoping for. "No no no, come on, sit up."

Sherlock's not in the mood. "John," he says impatiently. "Lie back and take it."

John raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock heaves a sigh. "P _lease_ ," he grits out.

"Sherlock, have you actually ever heard of tact?"

"Tact is merely ignoring the truth. I'll pass."

John laughs again, taking advantage of Sherlock's irritation to reverse their positions neatly. He leaves wonderful sucking kisses on Sherlock's throat, though, so Sherlock can't stay cross for long. They're so distracting, in fact, that it takes Sherlock a minute to realize John's rummaging around on the floor.

"What are . . . ?"

"Aha!" John produces a discreet packet of lube from his discarded trousers. "I was worried it may have fallen out when we knocked those chairs over before."

Sherlock stares at him.

"I'm not a complete idiot, you know." John squeezes a generous dollop into his hand. "Saw the mistletoe earlier. I can tell when I'm being propositioned."

"Can you now?" Sherlock says dubiously, eyes fastened to the sight of John slicking his fingers up and reaching behind . . .

" _Ah_ ," John puffs, clearly pressing one inside himself, now. "D'you know what, I've actually learned a thing or two about deduction."

"I wouldn't go quite that far."

John's pistoning his finger in and out now, eyes half-lidded and staunchly straddling Sherlock's legs. "Just watch," he advises, like it's an afterthought. Sherlock watches ravenously. John's cock bobs very slightly as he stretches himself further, splayed against John's belly and glistening wet still from Sherlock's saliva. His whole body is tensed, and he's wanton and fevered and perfect. Sherlock's erection is on the verge of painful arousal, so he reaches down to—

"Sherlock."

Sherlock freezes.

John is looking directly at him. "Ask."

Sherlock swallows. "Can I touch myself?"

"Expect so. Why do you want to?"

"I . . . because I'm turned on. Stupidly much. By you."

John shrugs. "I'll take it. Now wrap your hand around your cock—no, not so tight. Lightly. Good."

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat as he obeys, despite how his body is screaming at him for more. "John, I need . . . "

" 'Need'? You mean 'want'."

"Yes, all right, _technically_ , but anyway—"

"So say it," John says mildly. He's full-blown finger fucking himself.

"I _want_ . . . oh, look at you . . . "

"What do you want, Sherlock? Faster?"

" _Nn_. Yes, I . . ."

"Stroke it less quickly," John tells him. "No, slower than that. Sixty beats per minute, that's the slow one right?"

"I try to explain the finer points of musicianship to you and _that's_ what you latch onto?" Sherlock says breathlessly. "And _this_ is when you remember it?"

"Pump your cock slowly or not at all, Sherlock."

Sherlock growls a little, but he does comply. He can't very well not touch himself when John's got several fingers up his arse and there's a possibility of Sherlock finding out exactly how tight that feels.

"Stop," John says.

Sherlock groans. "John, it's—"

"Stop," John says again, and this time he presses Sherlock's wrists into the mattress, shimmies up the bed, and sinks down on Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock arcs up into it and John lets him, impaling himself fully and grinding his hips around before backing off, letting Sherlock's cock slip out of his arse almost to the tip and then sinking onto it. Sherlock breathes heavily, can't find words for the sharp pleading pleasure shooting through him and just digs his fingers into John's hips as John rides him.

John's smug expression evaporates slowly but surely into one of blissful concentration, brow furrowed and mouth parted and thighs shaking with effort every time he lowers himself. Sherlock waits til John's shortening breath catches on an unexpected gasp to flip them over.

John blinks up at him, caught between shock and enthrallment.

Sherlock bends til their faces are close, licks John's upper lip and tells him, "I'm going to fuck you _so_ very hard, John."

John gasps, wriggles, laughs and clutches Sherlock's arms. Sherlock starts to thrust, and John loses his cool almost immediately, emitting helpless little sounds every time Sherlock pushes back in while his hands twist up Sherlock's sheets and his head lolls off the side of the bed a bit, given their inadvertent diagonal position across it.

John whines and bucks up as Sherlock grinds down. "Sherlock, it's almost amazing. Just like that, but harder."

Sherlock increases the pace of his thrusts, looks at John expectantly.

"Ugh, why are you holding back?"

"Because I want to hear you beg."

" _Fine_. Oh, Sherlock," John deadpans. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock holds John's hips still, pressed mercilessly into the mattress as he fucks him harder. John yells something unintelligible and Sherlock has to muffle it with a hand over his mouth. He then stops moving, John's protests tickling his palm, and leans close to John and says, "Beg me for more, John." He removes his hand and kisses John fiercely, then tears his mouth away and waits.

"God please." John's eyes are closed, and his hands shake as they cover Sherlock's at his hips, and he writhes beneath him as he mutters, "Please do it Sherlock, want your cock so fucking badly please just give it to me oh _God_ that feels so good I— _shit_!"

Sherlock fucks into him, slow to start but gaining in speed and soon Sherlock isn't being calculated at all and instead follows the instinct for more that's clouded his mind. John gasps, "Just like that, just like that," over and over as Sherlock fucks him and Sherlock can't believe how good it feels, how tight John is and hot and willing and the appetizing tendon on his neck and the faltering flutter of his eyes. Sherlock comes inside him with a feeling like deafness but he's revived by the sound of John's voice shouting his name as he pulses against Sherlock's stomach. There's laughter somewhere buried beyond the pleasure that's soaking Sherlock's entire being, right now, and Sherlock slips out of the heat of John's body, lies sweatily on his back with John's chest rising and falling out of the corner of his eye. Sleep would be so easy . . .

There's a moan. It hasn't come from either of them. It is distressingly familiar.

"Hang on," Sherlock says, twists the sheets up as he dives to the floor for his trousers.

"Oh, God," John says, pinches the bridge of his nose. "This can't. This _can't_. Oh, this isn't."

"Hush, John."

> No need to be sorry,  
> I couldn't make it for dinner either.  
> How about lunch?

He locks the phone and flops down next to John on the bed. "Don't lie—you wouldn't discourage a woman from coming between us. In a manner of speaking."

John laughs.

"Certainly not _the_ Woman, anyway—"

"I—"

"Oh don't be coy; I saw you ogling her . . . measurements."

John snorts. "Yes, well." Fiddles with the pillowcase. "I do apologize for not being much of a mystery."

Sherlock shrugs. "Nobody wants to be confounded _all_ the time. Bit tiring."

John watches him. "I see."

"A certain level of predictability is desirable, if only because I can in fact predict it."

"I feed your ego, basically. Charming."

"Just so." It takes a minute for Sherlock to catch the snideness. "Does that bother you?"

John sighs. "What choice do I have?"

"You do have one," Sherlock points out. "But for some unfathomable reason you continue to choose feeding my ego over the alternative—I dunno, safety, or, dare I say it, _boredom_?"

John laughs. "Never a dull moment," he admits.

"Anyway, you may be predictable, but you aren't _too_ hopelessly boring."

"Call the papers," John murmurs. "That may be the nicest . . . ? Sure, why not, the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"It is, yes," Sherlock confirms.

*

"This one's titled 'Mistletoe'," Sherlock says, leaning over John's shoulder. "Why is this one titled 'Mistletoe'."

John shuts his laptop quick. "None of your business. Go away."

"It is," Sherlock says, prying the laptop out of John's hands after a rather dramatic tug-of-war. Sherlock knows John hasn't bothered with password protection in ages—probably because it saved him being upset when Sherlock inevitably guessed it. "I _bought_ the mistletoe."

"Actually you stole my card and—"

Sherlock waves it off. "Scratch that. It is _my_ intellectual property."

"Mistletoe is. Right, okay. All the mistletoe in the world is copyrighted by you."

Sherlock seethes at him, but offers minimal resistance when John reclaims his laptop.

"It's not what you think. My blog is not quite _that_ sensational. Although I'm flattered you think me capable of—"

"I don't."

John sighs, starts typing again. "Good. I was worried you'd been replaced by a genuine human for a moment, there."

"How the hell have you got on this long in the 21st century typing at a word a minute? It is truly disgraceful, particularly for a self-professed blogger . . . "

" _An_ yway: yes."

"Yes what?"

"I will."

"You'll _what_?"

"Be your Valentine." John glances up to grin at Sherlock's consternation. "You did have your traditions mixed up, didn't you."

"None of those traditions _mean_ anything—and the sort of people who do pay attention to such drivel don't in fact know the real meaning behind the traditions anyway . . . "

"Stop emoting, you're going to pull something," John says, turns his attention back to the computer screen. "And you'll be mine, too?" he asks mildly. "Valentine, that is."

"Well yes, of course. Obviously. Yes." Tea, he needs tea. Sherlock stalks into the kitchen. "Use your head, John."

*


End file.
